In the Heat of the Moment
by NightLightning21
Summary: JOHNLOCK story... John gets furious with Sherlock after yet another argument about his inability to feel. John, hurt by Sherlock's lack of caring decides to blog about his true feelings for the detective... and Sherlock reads it.
1. In the Heat of the Moment

In the Heat of the Moment

John was drunk. Though, drunk actually seemed to subtle a word. He'd just had a huge fight with Sherlock. The dumb genius. Sherlock had been out on a date the previous evening. Sherlock dating! What next? Flying pigs?

Admittedly, it had been for a case. Something about needing the girl to get to her brother. He wasn't entirely sure, especially with the alcohol slowly seeping through his veins. But he relished the liquid fire. It gave him something else to think about. He signaled for another, his slowed down brain not able to connect the bad possibilities.

It was entirely possible he wouldn't be able to make it back to Baker Street this night. And maybe that's what he wanted. Screw Sherlock and his amazing brain. In fact, screw everything about that egotistical, standoff, handsome idiot. John actually flinched when the word "handsome" came into his mind. But again, he was too drunk to care about it for more than a few seconds.

"Another one," he slurred out, waving with his hand. The bartender gave him a skeptical look but poured him another one.

"What's wrong mate?" he asked. "You look like you're trying to forget your whole life." John just looked up at him blurry eyes.

"Nah, just the last year or so," he snarked, downing the drink. He forced the liquid down, unwilling to give in to the gag reflex.

"Ah, love problem?" The bartender shot him a sympathetic glance. John just waved him off. Unfortunately, he hadn't drunk enough to completely wipe the memories of the last few hours.

He'd come home to Sherlock wrapped up with a girl. Which in itself was disturbing enough to send John into a drinking binge. Sherlock had looked up when they'd come in, with nothing more than mild curiosity in his eyes.

John almost dropped the grocery bags he was carrying. The girl had bit her lip, obviously wanting to continue. John, without another word, had exited the flat. He'd seen enough to last a lifetime.

"Bye," came the girl's voice as he locked the door. He'd bitten his lip and stomped down the stairs. Well, whatever. He had stuff to do anyway. Yeah, lots and lots of really important stuff to do.

He'd come back three hours later, bored out of his mind. When he unlocked the door, he was silently praying that the girl would no longer be there. Success, at least God gave small miracles. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, obviously deep in thought.

"Pen," he ordered, twisting his neck so he could look at John. And there was something about his calm demeanor that just pissed Joh off. He'd found a pen in his desk, and thrown it at the detective. Sherlock didn't even flinch when it hit him on the arm.

"Somebody is mad," he remarked, taking the pen. John just rolled his eyes. But was he really ready to reveal his reasoning for his anger? You know what, indeed he was.

"Who was the girl?" he asked, voice tight. His unnatural anger made Sherlock's head snap up. John now had his full attention.

"Her? Sister of Morgan Spencer. Serial killer." John started at that. He knew that Morgan Spencer had killed two young men, but he didn't know he was a serial killer.

"Hm, how'd you know he was a serial killer?" he asked. Sherlock to his surprise didn't roll his eyes. Probably too much effort for the pompous arse.

"Let's revisit the facts shall we? A paranoid loner who is targeting young men who we've already proved have no relation. He's gay, obviously, and it targeting young men whom he finds attractive. But who would never give him a chance. No revenge in his eyes though, you can see from the bodies. Just a skewed view of unrequited love. Done, serial killer." John didn't even bother pointing out that no, it was not done. Not to any _normal_ person out there.

"Right yeah, of course," he said, sitting down in his chair. "Was it necessary to snog her?" Sherlock had a look in eyes fairly close to surprise.

"Jealous?" he asked, with a curiosity that he hid well. John just snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, I was just wondering why you took it so far." He was bristling, every nerve on high alert. He was ready to defend himself at all costs.

"Because she wanted to." Sherlock said it like it was so obvious. John gave a frustrated sigh. He knew he shouldn't be feeling so… possessive. But he did. And he wasn't gonna bother trying to analyze it. Sod that.

"Do you know anything about romance?" John asked, before realizing he could answer his own question.

"Romance? Another word for weakness. A trait found in the losers of wars." For some reason, one that John did not know, that really hurt him. Like a small prick to his emotions. Okay, more like a knife cut.

"You really are a machine," he said, forcing back a hitch in his breath. Forced back everything.

"And you're impossible," he finished, grabbing his jacket and storming out of the flat. He was getting so frustrated with Sherlock's inability to feel. And he didn't even know why he cared. Why did it matter if Sherlock was asexual? Or aromantic? Or in love with his skull or whatever.

Maybe it was just because he knew what Sherlock was missing out on. Yeah, that was it. He cared about Sherlock. He wanted to help Sherlock feel those emotions he'd been denied for so long.

 _Then why were you so mad he was on a date?_ A little voice asked. John took a deep breath, shut it up and headed down to the pub.

Another glass. That's all he would have. Then it was back to Baker Street for him. He checked his phone, forcing his eyes to focus for a few seconds. The time said 3 something. Sherlock would be either asleep or deep in thought. Either way, John was clear to go back to the flat.

He drank the last sips of his drink, before placing the glass down on the counter. He tossed some money down, not willing to properly count it. It just seemed like too large an effort. He nodded at the bartender, before stumbling out of the bar. He shivered as the cool air hit his skin, and quickly wrapped his jacket around his shoulders.

"Sod this," he muttered, in an overall foul mood. Though the liquid currently coursing through his blood was helping quite a lot. He took off in the direction of his flat, at least he thought it was. After about ten minutes of wandering, he did indeed see the flat just a few hundred yards away. At the time, it seemed like miles.

But John was a soldier. He'd trekked for miles and miles before. So, he began the effort to make it back to his flat. He walked slowly, his body trying to absorb the alcohol into his system. It slowed his reflexes, dulled his brain, and weakened his mental energy.

He stumbled up the stairs, uncaring of the noise he was making. He wasn't being noisy enough to wake Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock wouldn't notice anyway.

"Stupid thing," he muttered, as he approached the lock. It took him a solid four tries to insert the key into the lock, and turn it in the right direction. He flung the door open and looked around the darkened. So, Sherlock had decided to sleep for the night. Great, good for him. John was still mad at him though.

He was feeling things for the detective even he couldn't 100% place a finger on. Oh sure, attraction. But that was whatever. What he was truly worried about, was that he was dangerously close to love. John Watson was no fool, despite what Sherlock said. He also knew himself well enough to know his feelings. But everything was complicated with Sherlock.

 _Figures that I fall for an aromantic or asexual person._ It would have been funny enough to laugh, but the darkness seemed to remind John that it was night.

"Water," he said aloud, trying to work out his thought process. He moved quietly thought the flat, mostly by his other senses. He located a glass that didn't have sheep's blood in it and took it over to the sink.

After a quick drink, for the first time, not liquor, John started to think about sleeping. His bed was a long way away from the kitchen. So instead, he settled on the couch, bringing his laptop to him. He opened it, barely remembering his own password.

When he finally did unlock it, it opened up to his blog. His fingers hovered over the keys, wanting to write something.

 _Tell them about Sherlock. Tell them how you feel._ John grinned, an idea developing in his alcohol wired brain. He would blog about Sherlock. About his feelings for Sherlock. Let everyone know. That would show the detective. That would force him to deal with emotion. John nodded and smiled. He then opened up a document and began doing just that.

 **Hello everyone. Just a quick warning, if this story doesn't perform it's coming down. Because I already have a lot going on with other stories. Anyways, welcome to this fanfic. It will be several chapters, hopefully, updated fairly regularly.**

 **Next time… When John wakes up with the hangover of the century, he is shocked to find what he wrote on his latest blog post. Especially with Sherlock sitting right next to him.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	2. There's Nothing Left to Do

There's Nothing Left to Do

* * *

John had at last found some sort of peace in his dreams. Mainly because he was just in darkness. There were no conflicting emotions threatening to drown him out. No stereotypes that he had to uphold. Nothing.

So he was sorely disappointed when at last, his eyes blinked open. He half slid open one eye, then flinched, and closed it again. The morning light was spilling into the flat, and directly onto him on the couch. He attempted a groan through his throat, then decided against it. His mouth was dry, and he was currently craving water and coffee.

"Oh jeez," he muttered, forcing his eyes open. At first, he was just looking at the ceiling. He allowed himself to adjust for a full minute, before attempting to get up. He sat up on the couch, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness.

When he looked to his right, he almost screamed. He thanked God that he didn't. Sherlock was seated next to him, just… staring. John eased himself up, sitting up even more. Sherlock didn't even blink at his movement.

"What the hell?" John exclaimed, his senses swimming back to his head. He felt a slight wave of nausea but brushed it off.

"You got in late last night," Sherlock said, finally moving his gaze. But when John saw what he was looking at, he would've preferred Sherlock just look at him. Sherlock's gaze averted to a laptop sitting open on the table.

John felt his heart sink when he saw what was pulled up. The blog. His blog. It was just sitting there, with last night's entry bold and clear. The wave of nausea was strengthened when he saw that.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to a mug at John's side. John almost blinked to make sure it was real. Had Sherlock made someone else tea? This was unheard of. John gave him a grateful nod as he gulped down the soothing liquid. Not only because it was precious life-giving liquid, but because it delayed the inevitable.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked. The words were stiff and unpracticed but it still meant a lot.

"Fine, fine. Just a bit… hungover." Well, if that wasn't the understatement of the day. The truth was he was feeling like absolute shit, but he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that.

"The office called," Sherlock said, also apparently wanting to delay the conversation that was looming on both of them.

"They want you in by noon," he continued. Noon? John checked his watch, and let out a few curse words. It was already 10:30. He leaped up from the couch, ignored the spinning of the room, and ran to get dressed.

John took a deep breath once he was fully dressed. He adjusted his shirt while thinking about the evening before. He didn't quite remember when he got back to the flat, but he did remember the computer. He remembered everything that he put down on his blog that night. It was just a drunken ramble, but the message was clear as day.

* * *

The Personal Blog of

 **DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

 _31st November_

 **My Own Feelings**

I swear my life has just been an endless parade of problems since I met Sherlock Holmes. One thing after another, this man makes me feel things that the smartest psychologist in the world couldn't figure out. Though Sherlock could probably deduce it in seconds. But I.. I cannot let him do that. I can't even come close.

Now, I'm gonna end up regretting this. But, to everyone out there who reads this blog, there is something I need to say. First of all, no I am not gay. I am attracted to females, there is no question about it.

But, there has been a recent phenomenon due to the media attention that Sherlock and I have received. I believe it's called "Johnlock" but to be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure. Why would I look that stuff up? Anyways, I will confirm some truth to this seemingly heinous rumor. Yes, I Dr. John H. Watson am in love with Sherlock Holmes. Crazy as it sounds. Crazy as it will always sound, it's truer than anything I've felt in a long long time.

Sherlock makes me a better man. That's what love is to me right? And God I know he makes me the best version of myself. So yes, I fell for him. I fell for an asexual aromantic high functioning sociopath. Because I'm stupid.

Sherlock was the best thing that could have happened to me when I returned from the war. He made me feel again. I guess that's why I was able to fall for a man. And fall I did.

But I swear this is temporary. I swear it. Nothing will happen between us. I am still "Bachelor John Watson," loyal sidekick to the world's greatest detective. I will always be that. So yeah, that happened.

John Watson

* * *

He had to go to work. He knew he had to go to work. So later, they would talk later.

* * *

It was 5:30 when John got home. He walked up the stairs, wondering what tonight would entail. Who knows, maybe Sherlock would forget about it. It seemed a plausible thing for the detective to do. After all, he only stored useful information in his brain. John's little romantic heartbreak would not be considered important to Sherlock. It's just who he was. A man who would not or could not identify with romantic love.

He turned his key in the lock and pushed the door open. Sherlock had moved from his previous place in the chair. A plus. He was currently examining something through his microscope. He had the laptop next to him, so John assumed he'd moved on from the whole blog thing. When he went to the fridge though, he saw his blog was still pulled up, and very much still on Sherlock's mind. Great, just great.

"Um, Sherlock?" he asked tentatively. Sherlock didn't answer.

 _Figures_ , John thought, though he wasn't really angry. John could've directly told him that he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock still would be the same. He was in the middle of an experiment which meant everything else was drowned out. His thoughts rose to the top, beating down on any sort of interruption.

John warmed up the leftover Chinese food and sat down on the couch. He ate quickly, scrolling through his email at the same time. There was a reply from Harry about Christmas. John decided to save that one for later.

Otherwise, there was the usual routine for him. He reviewed case notes for an hour or so, then decided to start in on the new book he'd gotten. Sherlock seemed to not be speaking this evening, which was fine by John. Because it didn't matter if Sherlock didn't care. It didn't matter if Sherlock deleted the information of John's love from his mind. Because it would forever remain in John's.

John would always feel awkward until they resolved this tension now. He wanted to curse at himself, but the particular words he wanted to use may have been enough to rouse Sherlock from his experimental state.

"Ah, John you're back," Mrs. Hudson said, as she entered the flat. "How was your day?" she asked. John shrugged and gave her the run of his day. Mrs. Hudson nodded, though she clearly had something on her mind.

"Mrs. Hudson is there something wrong?" John asked, beginning to worry some. Mrs. Hudson hesitated for a second, glancing over at Sherlock still unmoving. He wasn't going to be listening.

"Listen, John, about your blog." John instantly stiffened, and his hands clenched some.

"Mrs. Hudson, it doesn't matter," he said, trying to wave her off. Mrs. Hudson gave him a skeptical look but respected his wants.

"Alright, John. I won't push. Good night." She left the flat after that. John, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in Sherlock's presence retired to his room.

He was just working on some notes on his laptop when he got a notification from his blog. Someone had commented on his latest post. John grimaced, but decided to go ahead and open it.

He went to the site, and to his latest post. He scrolled down and found the comment section.

 **COMMENTS:** **Oldest to Newest**

 **Harry Watson—** Are you drunk? (8 hours ago)

 **D.I. Lestrade—** Mate we need to talk (6 hours ago)

 **Mrs. Hudson—** Go for it John (1 hour ago)

 **Anonymous—** Johnlock for life! (1 hour ago)

 **Mrs. Hudson—** Indeed (55 minutes ago)

 **Newest Comment:**

 **Sherlock Holmes—** I love you too, John (30 seconds ago)

* * *

 **Alright everyone, let's do this. By the way, updates are not gonna be this often. Not normally.**

 **Next time… With the loophole that Sherlock has now thrown, things get even more complicated for the Baker Street Boys.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	3. Best Wishes to You and John Watson

Best Wishes to You and John Watson

John had to stare at the comment for almost three minutes before he finally understood it fully. Even then, nothing seemed to be adding up for the doctor. Sherlock Holmes loved him?

Then, of course, it was Sherlock. So, maybe love meant something completely different to the detective. John was smart enough to know that nothing would be roses and kittens from now on. It's amazing that Sherlock's response made things even more complicated than they already were. Like telling your best mate in the whole world that you're secretly in love with him isn't bad enough.

No, the universe decided to hit him with some more crap that he had to deal with. And while these thoughts were going through the rational part of his brain, the part that was controlled by sentiment was doing a happy dance. No doubt, Sherlock would mock him mercilessly for allowing himself to be controlled by sentiment, but John had gotten used to that by now.

His fingers hovered over the keys, contemplating his next choice of action. Sherlock probably had already deduced any of his possible reactions. He probably knew exactly what was going through John's mind. It both infuriated and fascinated him.

"Sod this," he muttered, shutting the laptop off with a vigor that was really quite unnecessary. But he needed to release his frustration on something. And beating Sherlock up would have repercussions the next day. So the laptop was the next target in line.

John shut the light off and pulled the covers over his head. He didn't care that it was still practically evening outside. He needed to sleep. To figure out how to work out this shitstorm that was being kicked up. But, he found that he had no regret in his mind.

It was perhaps, what surprised him the most. From his past experiences, drunk decisions did not generally lead to happiness. And almost every single one he'd ended up feeling some sort of regret with. Not with this. And he didn't have a clue as to why.

Maybe it just needed to be said. Maybe he didn't care what Sherlock felt in return, as long as he made his own feelings quite clear.

 _Maybe you're still jealous over Irene Adler_ , a tiny part of him whispered. The thought was rather quickly pushed away. He seemed to do that a lot when thoughts of Irene Adler entered his mind. It had been less than three months since that particular unpleasant memory had been created. He was quite eager to forget it now.

Still, it needed to be acknowledged. He wasn't going to go his entire life without thinking about The Woman, was he? Matter of fact, that's exactly what he was planning on doing. Tomorrow. He would deal with everything here tomorrow.

* * *

Sherlock was not a man of impulse. He plotted everything, deduced every last possibility. So, he was currently staring at his phone in utter disbelief. John's blog was pulled up, and his own comment had been posted.

He almost slapped himself for his _stupidity_. He'd been blinded by the… dare he say sentiment of it all. But, it's been said and done. His own feelings for the doctor were now plain and clear on the web. No doubt he would get so much crap from this at the yard. But, that thought barely crossed his mind. He was too busy deducing all of the different possibilities of John's reactions.

Number one was the least likely given how he was given the information. It was John coming downstairs right then to talk about it. Like that was gonna happen. Anyone else might have considered it, but not Sherlock. It was obvious that John was not willing to do direct confrontation with this issue. The blog post was proof enough.

Number two was the third most likely scenario. It was that John would just try to forget about it. Sounds unlikely right? Wrong. Sherlock had studied enough humans to know that sentiment made you do a lot of crazy things.

If John was insecure about their friendship, then this situation would be more likely. But Sherlock knew that he wasn't.

Now, the most likely one would be that John would try to sleep on this one. He'd seen the hesitant behaviors even in John's drunken ramble. He needed time to process what exactly had happened. Yes, that was the most likely scenario in this unlikely turn of events. Sherlock nodded to himself, already satisfied with his work.

He debated getting up and going to bed, but his brain was already racing. Tonight would not be a night of rest. This was further confirmed when a familiar moan echoed through the room. His phone lit up next to him, with a message. The moan/gasp sounded again, as another message popped up from Irene Adler. He glanced at the messages, seeing if they were of any interest to him.

This time they were.

 _Best wishes to you and John Watson._

 _So excited to see which one become the dominant…_

Sherlock didn't even put in the effort to roll his eyes. That was too much like work. Instead, he continued to stare at the kitchen, allowing his subconscious to take over his thinking. Tonight he could safely retreat to his Mind Palace to think.

* * *

Two hours later…

Sherlock was still in the exact same position, eyes closed and deep in thought. He was particularly troubled by the Moriarty troubles. He was still out there. Somewhere. And Sherlock was not about to let his guard down to let the man in. He would rather die than let Moriarty get the best of him.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a thump upstairs, followed by a hoarse yelling. The panic in the voice was obvious. Fearing the worst, Sherlock dashed upstairs. He took the steps two by two, and almost crashed into John's door.

He didn't even wait to catch his breath before he opened the door. The fear that was coursing through him was not unlike his fear when John had the bomb vest on.

"John?!" he shouted, flicking the light on. John lay in a trembling heap in the floor. But the moment he saw Sherlock, he shot up. Blankets were shrugged, as John faced the detective.

Sherlock's breath came easier when he saw what had happened. John had just had a nightmare. He wasn't in danger. Emotionally fragile perhaps, and burdened with troubles, but not hurt.

"Sherlock?" John asked, nervously picking at a thread on his shirt. The detective had gone quiet and was just staring at him. Sherlock mentally shook himself and tried to deduce what to do next.

"What happened?" he asked, taking a step closer. John held his ground before he collapsed in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock gasped at the sudden extra weight but managed to stay upright. He pulled John upright, so he could look him in the eyes.

"What happened?" he asked again. John slid out of his grasp, and onto his bed.

"We… were at the pool… I was so scared… Every time I tried to… to stop you… you shot the vest, and you… you died." John hiccuped, tears beginning to drip onto his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make it all just go away. Sherlock slowly kneeled by the bed, wondering the best way to go about this.

He'd already figured out what had prompted this nightmare. It was so easy, an idiot could figure it out. John was scared of losing him. And the showdown at the pool was the most scared John had ever been for Sherlock's life. Simple.

"John… I…" Sherlock trailed off when he realized he didn't know what to say. Should he try statistics? Show the probability of either one of them dying.

"John, look the dream won't happen in real life. After all, the probability of Moriarty making his next move on you is slim, to say the least. And the odds of me dying are only increased above the average by about ten percent. I mean, it really depends on the case, but in most instances-"

"Sherlock," John cut in. "Bit not good," he said. He was grateful for the sliver of normality in their relationship.

"Right, sorry," Sherlock apologized. He wracked his brain for other ways to provide comfort. After a few minutes of silence, he finally just decided to ask.

"What do you want, John?" he asked. John gave a watery laugh and looked up at the ceiling. Sherlock quickly realized that his previous statement could have been misunderstood sixteen different ways, and decided to clarify.

"I mean tonight John. What do you want tonight?" he asked, licking his lips. John just stared at the ground for a while. Sherlock was about to ask again when John quietly responded.

"Stay with me." Sherlock tipped his head, trying to deduce John's tone. It wasn't pleading or desperate. It also wasn't romantic, or love filled. It was a favor. From a friend. And how could Sherlock deny that?

"Alright. I will stay with you tonight."

* * *

 **Not as much of a cliffhanger this time. Yay.**

 **Next time… Moriarty learns of the new development between Sherlock and John and decides to take action.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	4. The Waiting Game

The Waiting Game

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. I have to admit, I saw that coming from a mile away. That pool thing? Do you remember how worried dear Sherlock was about his doctor?" He chuckled at the memory.

"Sir, do you need anything else?" the guard asked. He was looking at his boss uncertainly, not entirely sure how he would take the news.

"Oh no, go away. I need time to process this." A dismissive hand flick was all it took to send the guard scurrying away. Well, it seemed everyone was afraid of him. Hurtful if he thought about it. Or… thrilling?

Jim Moriarty sat back in his chair, contemplating his next move. There were a thousand possibilities to consider.

"Oh Sherlock, you truly are blind in some ways," he said aloud, thinking about the great detective. If only he could see that only Moriarty was his equal. He was the only one who could match the detective's intelligence and cunning.

But, John made Sherlock feel special. Or something along those lines. Moriarty would have his chance. Soon. Oh so very soon.

John held onto the warmth of his dream for a few moments longer, before forcing his eyes open. He'd finally dreamt of happiness when Sherlock agreed to spend the night with him.

John turned around and saw Sherlock right next to him. One long arm was draped over him, while his head was almost leaning on John's chest. God, think of what people would say if they saw this. He sighed and decided not to worry about it.

Sherlock looked younger when he was asleep. Less… annoying. John smiled when he realized that Sherlock was actually moving towards him. He curled his body around John's, effectively spooning him. The doctor secretly relished the feeling.

"Sherlock," he whispered. He nudged the sleeping man, hating himself for doing it. But, it was necessary. They both needed to get up.

"John," Sherlock murmured, adjusting his position. He pulled John in closer, refusing to let go. John tried a few times to rescue himself but gave up when the effort seemed futile. Sherlock seemed satisfied with his efforts and fell into a deeper sleep. John rolled his eyes but snuggled up to the detective to spend the morning together.

He must've drifted off because when he woke again, it was half past nine. Sherlock wasn't there anymore, but the place where he slept was still warm.

"Sherlock?" he called out, still half groggy with sleep. The bedroom door suddenly swung open, revealing an unkempt and frantic looking Sherlock.

"John, good you're up." He was delicately balancing a couple of trays, one holding tea and the other holding food. John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock set down a plate of eggs and toast. Sherlock Holmes helping someone else?

"I haven't got a completely stone heart, John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He nudged the doctor encouraging him to eat. John scooped up the toast, acutely aware of Sherlock's steady gaze staring at him. He only managed to swallow a few bites before the silence became awkward.

"Sherlock… about last night," John started. But Sherlock just shook his head.

"Don't bother. There's really no need for you to talk about it." That shut John up for a second. He lamely licked his lips, wondering what to say next.

"Oh well… thanks. Um… what about-"

"The comment?" Sherlock asked, effectively cutting him off. John just nodded slowly. Sherlock hesitated for only a moment before he spoke.

"John, I meant it. I really did. No games, nothing." John felt his heart lift a bit at hearing the confirmation. But Sherlock wasn't finished.

"But um, I don't think right now would necessarily be an ideal time to start a relationship. While it may be what our hearts desire, we must do what is best for us right now." Sherlock ended his little speech abruptly, seeing John bite his lip.

"That's fine, Sherlock. I understand. It's enough you know. Our friendship. It's gonna be enough for me." He tried to put a convincing smile on, and he thought he did a pretty good job of it. But this of course was Sherlock.

The detective deduced in 1.6 seconds that John was actually not okay with it. But that he was indeed willing to wait as long as needed to pursue anything. Well, that was a comfort.

"Right well, you need to eat your breakfast. We've got a case today."

Sherlock half listened to a man blag on about his case, staring at John in the chair opposite. The man was talking about finding bodies in some old warehouse. All in all, the case was really only a four.

"Get to the interesting part," he snapped. The man stopped talking, giving Sherlock a confused look. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm telling you," he defended. "Aren't you supposed to be some genius or something." That caught Sherlock's attention. John looked up in alarm as Sherlock's blue eyes darkened.

"You know, Sherlock Holmes the guy who knows things that ordinary people don't?" Sherlock took a deep breath before letting loose.

"You mean like how you're having an affair with your boss' wife? Or maybe like how you promised her that you would leave your wife, but never plan to. How the work trip you made last week was really just a romantic weekend with her, and ooh you've even got a flat together. Interesting how you would explain that to your wife."

"I…" he stuttered, unable to refute any of it. Sherlock just smiled. Even John couldn't help the small grin that crossed his face. It warmed Sherlock's heart. But only a little.

"You're crazy. You're an absolute psychopath." The man flinched away like Sherlock was going to turn into a demon.

"High functioning sociopath," he corrected. "Now, skip ahead as to why you came."

"Yeah, right." The man took a deep breath, still wary. "I think I may have killed them." Sherlock's head snapped up in intrigue. Well well, this case had just become a seven.

"You see I've had dreams of the warehouse. I think… I think I killed them when I was dreaming. This whole thing is bloody terrifying." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Very well. Show us." The man looked taken aback.

"Sorry?"

"Show us the warehouse."

They took a cab to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Sherlock followed the man into the dark building. He led them to a small room, half lit by a dusty old bulb. The smell was increasingly awful, as the stench of rotting bodies wafted towards them.

"How did you find this place?" John asked, carefully stepping over rusting pipelines. He winced as his shoulder brushed up against the wall. When he came away, there was a blackish liquid layered on.

"Just bloody fabulous," John muttered, not even daring to try and brush it off. Who knew what that could be.

"I dreamt it," the man answered, unusually confident for someone creeping around an old warehouse.

"Sorry, you dreamt it?" John asked, disbelief tainting his tone. The man nodded eagerly.

"Yes, don't you see? It was like I was being led here in my dream. But I don't know by whom. I could just feel a force pulling me to this place. And, I actually have no idea where in London this is. I've never really been in this part before."

Sherlock continued to walk through the maze of rooms, curious as to exactly where this would go.

"I remember what the people looked like, detective. I remember their faces. I can remember the blood as well." The man continued to go on about his experience, all while leading them further into the building. John began to wonder how they would ever be able to get out.

There were no windows anywhere, and the only way they could see is with their phone flashlights.

"Uh how far are we?" he asked, feeling something crawl over his foot. Please just be a mouse.

"Not far. Just a couple more rooms." Sherlock narrowed his eyes but continued to follow.

"This is disgusting," John muttered, stepping into a puddle yet again. Up ahead the ceiling had caved in some, allowing sunlight to filter through the darkness. That's when they both saw them.

Six bodies were strewn on the floor, all of them in various states of decomposition.

"There," the man said pointing.

"Yeah, we got that," John said, now following Sherlock to the bodies. Two males, four females. All white, with some in the middle class and some in clear poverty. Homeless.

"You killed them?" Sherlock asked. The man nodded, almost eagerly. Sherlock looked one last time before turning around.

"Except you didn't Mr. Roland. You're left-handed. And the person who killed these people is right-handed." Sherlock took another step forward, threateningly so.

"Who sent you?" Mr. Roland backed up some, clearly intimidated. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Uh don't worry. I sent him."

Both Sherlock and John whipped around to see a figure emerge from the shadows. Jim Moriarty.

"Hello, again boys. Lovely to see both of you. You're looking quite well. Mrs. Hudson been taking good care of you?"

"What do you want?" John hissed, taking a step towards the other man. Jim held his hands up in surrender.

"Ooh, so aggressive Mr. Watson. But don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you. In fact, as long as you both follow me. No one will get killed." Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Finally, Sherlock nodded. Moriarty smiled in triumph.

"Wonderful. Now… let's play a game."

 **Been a while huh?**

 **Next time… Sherlock and John are forced to play a dangerous game for their freedom where nothing is as it seems.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	5. It's A Dangerous Life

It's A Dangerous Life

"You know I gotta admit, it's a lot easier to trick you guys than you think. Sherlock, please. I honestly expected better of you." Moriarty stepped closer, the smug smile still very present on his face. It made John want to break his nose.

"You know I'll admit, John I didn't think anyone could get Sherlock to say 'I love you.'" Moriarty faked a round of applause, clearly enjoying the upper hand.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, speaking for the first time. Moriarty turned his attention to the detective.

"Didn't I just tell you?" he asked. "I want to play a game. Nothing special. Win, and you can live." John could practically see Sherlock's brain working overtime to try and figure out Moriarty's play.

"A car will come for you two tomorrow at noon. You'd be advised to get in it," Moriarty said, a smile pulling at his lips. But John was confused. Tomorrow?

"Wait, why tomorrow? You know we can just leave right?" he asked. Moriarty looked over at Sherlock while he said his answer.

"But you won't will you?" he asked. "Because I know you too well, Sherlock." John whipped around to stare at Sherlock as well.

"Alright, what stops us from going to the police?" he asked, still trying to wrap his brain around the whole thing. Moriarty shrugged at that as well though.

"You won't," was all his answer was. John huffed in disbelief.

"You're a madman free on the streets of London. You're probably the one who killed these people. Of course we're gonna bloody turn you in," John spat, gesturing to the corpses surrounding them.

"Don't try to convince me," Moriarty pointed out. "I'm not the one who is contemplating this." He smiled fully this time, a dangerous gleam in his eye. John just stood there, unable to find anything else to say.

They stood there for minutes, no one speaking a word. Sherlock was apparently lost in thought and John didn't think he should say anything. Moriarty seemed to have sensed victory.

"Well, I gotta be off. I'm a busy bee and all. Places to be… people to see… that is how that saying goes right? Well anyways, see you two tomorrow." He turned around, and headed out from one of the other rooms.

"It's been fun," he threw over his shoulder, the words echoing loudly in the cement structure.

"We should do it again sometime," he said, before disappearing for good into the other parts of the buildings.

"He's an absolute psycho," John muttered, unable to believe that Moriarty and people like him really existed. Sherlock, who hadn't moved even an inch for the last five minutes, suddenly jerked to life. He gave his hair a ruffle before striding out of the building.

John looked at him in confusion but hurried out after him as well. They didn't talk until Sherlock had hailed a cab and they were just outside of the flat.

"You're not really thinking about going are you?" John asked tentatively. Moriarty's words came flooding back into his mind and sent a shiver up his spine. Sherlock didn't answer right away. Perhaps because he was thinking. But John was worried that Sherlock already knew exactly what he would do. And nothing, not even John could stop him.

* * *

Sherlock sat calmly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His posture was one of complete control. He looked like he always did, confident and unshaken. His mind was in a different state.

John had confronted him when the got into the flat. He'd accused Sherlock of loving the danger just a little too much. He just kept playing the scene on repeat in his head.

"Fine fine. You know what? Whatever. Get yourself killed by Moriarty if you want to. You obviously love what he gives you. If you want it so badly, then just go. But I sure as hell aren't going to be there to back you up!" John had yelled this in a rage, before grabbing his phone and storming away from the flat. Sherlock has just barely dared to look out the window at where he was going.

He physically shook his head, forcing the memory from his mind. Instead, he had to figure out what Moriarty was going to do. He replayed the confrontation in his head, looking for any signs in Moriarty's body language.

"What is it? What sign?" he muttered, closing his eyes to further dive into his mind palace. He stayed like this for four hours, trying to reason out what Moriarty could be planning.

At around 9 pm, the door to the flat opened again. Sherlock felt his heart speed for a few seconds, opening his eyes and snapping his head up. Funny, usually he wouldn't let a little distraction like that distract him. Then of course, John Watson was no ordinary distraction.

"Do my eyes deceive me? Or is Sherlock Holmes in love?" came the sneering voice of Mycroft. Sherlock internally rolled his eyes. He did not have time to deal with his snobbish older brother.

"Good evening, Mycroft. I assume there's a reason why you saw it fit to disturb me in my own home?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to adjust his position. Mycroft sighed and took John's chair across from him.

Sherlock's head snapped up, glaring at his brother. An irrational wave of irritation and jealousy swept through him.

"Get out," he said, flicking his gaze over to the chair where clients sat. Mycroft looked like he was about to protest, then resigned himself and moved chairs.

"Where is John Watson?" he asked, looking around the flat for the blonde haired doctor.

"Gone," Sherlock said, not trusting his voice any further. He glanced at the clock, realizing that he should probably get some sleep. He needed to be at peak performance tomorrow for Moriarty.

"So, you're actually going through with this?" Mycroft asked. "You're just going to let him go?" Sherlock didn't reply for several moments.

"It's his choice. He's just my flatmate." He berated himself the moment he said that. He knew that how easily Mycroft could read that.

"Sherlock, do you really believe you can take on Moriarty without John?" he asked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's question. But he didn't respond. Because he honestly didn't know.

"Ah, that's what I thought. Be careful, brother mine. I expect to be seeing you soon," Mycroft said, standing up from the chair. With a last glance at his little brother, he exited the flat.

Sherlock glanced up at the clock, seeing there were only four minutes until noon. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, settling into his stomach for the time being. Though Mycroft's question still rung through his head, he was able to push it out of focus for a while. John was gone. That was the end of the story.

"Sherlock, there's a cab here for you," Mrs. Hudson called out from down below. Sherlock smiled slightly, before standing and collecting his coat. He headed out the door, easily going down the steps and out the front door.

Moriarty was sitting in the car, glass of wine in hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed into the back seat along with him. Moriarty couldn't help the grin across his face when he saw the absence of John.

"Nothing can save you now, Sherlock," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

John woke up in unfamiliar surroundings. Oh, right. He was in a hotel room. He rubbed at his face, remembering the conversation from a few nights ago. It had been two days since Sherlock had disappeared from the flat. But John knew he couldn't get involved. It was just too hard.

"Oh Jesus," he muttered, a headache already well on its way. Not to mention the anxiety that pulled at his gut every moment he didn't know if Sherlock was safe. He pushed those thoughts out of his head. He checked his phone, seeing there was a message from Lestrade. It said that Sherlock wasn't picking up, and did John know why. He decided to ignore it for the time being.

He ruffled his hair and headed for the fridge. He pulled out the cold leftovers from yesterday's dinner. As he was eating, his phone pinged again, indicating a new message. But this time it was from a blocked number.

 _Save Sherlock Holmes…_

There was a video attached as well and John quickly played it. It showed Sherlock looking into a camera. John's initial relief was drowned in fear when he heard what Sherlock was saying.

"We need to destroy humanity as it is now. The only person who is capable of rewiring the program is Jim Moriarty. We must turn to him for guidance on how to stop this terror."

The clip ended, leaving John almost shivering in fear. He watched the clip twice more, each time leaving him more worried.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm coming. I promise." John threw the phone down and raced to find some clothes. He would save Sherlock if it cost him his life.

* * *

 **Wow, it's been a while. Haven't forgotten though.**

 **Next time… John races to save Sherlock before Moriarty can completely destroy him.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	6. The Long Game

The Long Game

John was desperate. He ran down the stairs, still struggling to pull on his coat. Get to Mycroft. That was his one and only goal right now. He knew that Sherlock's brother would do anything to save him.

He finally threw his other arm into his sleeve and rushed into the lobby of the hotel. He ran out onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing stepping into the path of a cab.

"Please, please!" he called out, practically throwing himself on the hood of the car. The cab driver nodded and motioned for him to open the door. John grabbed at the handle, yanking it open.

"Please, I need to get to Mycroft Holmes." John thought on it for a few moments. And somewhere in his mind, he knew exactly where to go. Mycroft surely knew Sherlock was gone by now. And John knew that he would go to the last place Sherlock was. To look for clues and see what had happened to his younger brother.

"Take me to 221b Baker Street," John said, narrowing his eyes. He spent the entirety of the ride just panicking. He could barely see straight let alone think. Instead, he anxiously drummed the seat as he waited for the cab to arrive. When it did, he tossed some notes on the driver's seat and sprinted away. He needed to get inside.

The door was flung open and he rushed up the stairs.

"Oh John, thank God you're here," Mrs. Hudson cried out, rushing up the stairs to meet him. He looked back, suddenly caught up in her hug. She was almost sobbing with relief as she clung to him.

"It's Sherlock. He's… he's gone. Some men came and took him. He told me… he told me to find you," she said, finally releasing John. He soothed her, while at the same time trying to head up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson finally seemed to get the message and followed him up to the flat.

"Do you remember who took Sherlock?" John asked, stepping into the familiar surroundings. It felt good to be back. Even if in such dire circumstances. He began searching the flat, looking under the knife and also in the kitchen. Sherlock's experiments were still there as if nothing had happened. And there was nothing under the knife either.

"It seems we share a similar goal John Watson," came a voice from behind him. John spun around, facing the sound of the voice.

"Mycroft. Why must you do that?" he asked. He rolled his eyes at Mycroft's usual difficulty. But right now, he just needed answers.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked, worry creeping into his tone. Mycroft for once looked just as clueless as John.

"I don't know Mr. Watson. Sherlock disappeared from sight two days ago. I can only assume he's with Moriarty." John felt ice cold fear creep up on him. It was amazing the effect one name could do to him.

"We need to find him!" John half yelled, breath coming slightly faster. He could feel himself become mentally unhinged at the thought of Sherlock in Moriarty's grasp. Of Sherlock in that video.

"Mycroft, do you have any idea where Moriarty would take him?" John was grasping at straws here. He spun around the flat another time, looking for _any_ trace of the detective.

His eyes fell on the knife again. He approached again looking at it a little more closely. Something about it seemed off. On closer examination of the wood, he saw it was torn up around the tip of the blade. Like the knife had been twisted. He narrowed his eyes and got down at eye level.

When Sherlock stabbed the wood, it was always just a straight cut. Just thrust it into the deep brown fibers. Not twisted. It made John suspicious. The blade was turned to the right. Towards… Billy?

 _Think like Sherlock_ , John told himself. _Crazy and unexpected is his game_. He walked over to Billy inspecting the small skull. Something was caught in the middle. In the skull's teeth. John grabbed Billy and lifted him up off the mantel. It looked like a small black box, with a strap that was in Billy's teeth.

"What is this?" John asked, pulling the strap free. He looked at the tiny screen and a small red light that was off.

"It's a tracker," Mycroft said coming up behind John. "Um, may I?" he asked. John nodded and handed over the small device. Mycroft searched for a second before pressing something on the side of the box.

The light flicked on and the small screen lit up. The green text began to spell out in the tiny space.

"It's coordinates," John said squinting at the screen.

"Sherlock knew you would come," Mycroft said with a touch of amusement in his voice. John decided to ignore it for the time being. They needed to find Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock stared at his surroundings. Nothing special really. It's where he'd been for the last two days. Stuck. In Moriarty's place. And the evil madman himself? He came in spontaneously every few hours to see what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock had mostly ignored him.

That had changed yesterday. When Moriarty had come in with a video camera and started setting up a tripod. Sherlock had raised an eyebrow, but did nothing more until prompted.

"I know you'll resist everything I do, so let me give you an incentive."

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes. But he also knew of Moriarty's power. And that no matter what he had to do, the incentive would be good.

"The game starts soon my dear Sherlock. So, cooperate with this video, and I'll bring John Watson to you. So the detective and his sidekick can work together once again."

Damn Moriarty and his games. Sherlock knew he _knew_ that with John he could never think straight. It was the one area of his life not guided by his intellect.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Moriarty smiled, his eyes turning darker.

"Oh, good boy Sherlock. We could make this work indeed," Moriarty said, his tone turning flirty. He touched Sherlock on the shoulder and ran his hand down his arm.

"We'll see how this turns out." The video had been short work, and Sherlock was a capable actor. He knew he had to make an effort. He could give Moriarty no reason to renege on their deal.

And he sat in the room, just waiting to see John again. He knew John would find the coordinates. Moriarty knew about that too. They predicted each other's movements like a movie they'd seen a hundred times. Sherlock knew Moriarty would bring John to him. Moriarty knew Sherlock would try and bring John to his location.

"You're boyfriend is smarter than I gave him credit for." The door swung open, and Moriarty presented himself once again. He had a remote in his hand and pressed a button near the top.

A screen slid down from the ceiling, taking the place of the wall. It showed security cam footage from outside of the building. Sherlock quickly took it in, scanning for anything of use.

The guard outside, who was cheating on his wife and waiting until his break to see his mistress with an apartment just down the street from here. A war veteran who was walking her dog on her way to her new job. And John.

Sherlock watched him climb out of a car, one that Mycroft had obviously sent, and run up to the building. The other guard, the one that was gay and had a wedding anniversary coming up approaches John. After a few words, the guard opened the door and let John in. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a small surge of relief at seeing John here.

"Well, would you look at that. Lovers reunited. Don't you just love the fairytale happiness? Almost as good as my _Hungry Donkey_ story." Moriarty cackled at his own joke, apparently finding himself hilarious.

"Well, I'm off. Looks like the game can finally begin. Now that we have the two players. Gosh, it'll be like the _Amazing Race_ huh." Sherlock tried to block out his voice. He just needed to beat the dumb game and get John out of here.

"Where is he? When can we start?" he asked. Moriarty looked genuinely surprised for a few seconds. He then began to laugh, shaking his head at Sherlock.

"Oh, wait you're being serious?" he asked. Sherlock iced over his gaze. He hardened his eyes and took a step forward. He was beginning to get annoyed.

"The game has started Mr. Holmes. Challenge 1? Find John Watson." Moriarty smiled and disappeared through the door. Sherlock went to the door a few seconds later and tried the handle. It opened. So, time for challenge 1. He had to find John.

* * *

 **Next time… It's the greatest game yet as Sherlock and John try to escape from Moriarty's game.**

 **R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


	7. Take the Shot

Take the Shot

The hallways twisted and turned almost unnaturally as Sherlock raced through them. It was clear Moriarty had designed this building. Otherwise, Sherlock would've been able to find an exit within four minutes. But no such look.

"Think think think," he ordered himself. He forced himself to stop running around wildly and try to outthink Moriarty. He knew he could. He closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace. He sorted and sifted through his Moriarty files, searching for any hint of where John was. He went back to the image of the guards letting John into the building. Right, so first he had to find the ground floor.

Sherlocked weaved in between doors and rooms, searching for something that would lead him lower. He finally stumbled upon a set of stairs that took him down into a garage of sorts. The ceilings and walls were made of cement, and the air smelled of must and mildew.

"John?" he called out into the gloomy structure. He strode over to where two of the walls connected in a corner. He inspected it closely. There! Sherlock bent down and took out his magnifying glass. It was a sealant that was holding the two pieces of concrete together. It was completely unfit for anything of strength. The smell of mildew in the back of his mind worked its way into his deductions. Mildew. A water leak somewhere. Where the sealant would be weaker. That's exactly where it would gather. Sherlock strode over to the opposite corner and quickly inspected it. He felt a punch of satisfaction at being proven right.

He stood back and judged the best place to attack it. A few inches under his waist. There was a small hole already. He reared back and kicked the corner with all of his strength. It fell down like cardboard. The walls crumbled and dust was hurled into the air. Sherlock covered his mouth and eyes while he dodged larger pieces of falling debris. It took a full minute for the dust to settle. Sherlock opened his eyes again and looked around his surroundings. There was a door right in front of him. Like the entire garage was built inside a larger room. A stage of sorts. He decided the door was his best option. He flung it open to reveal a black room. The walls were painted completely ebony and the lighting was dim. He examined the light switch and saw it had a small button right next to it. When he pressed it, more light flooded into the room. Now he could see properly at least.

He could also see the carpeted floors for the first time. He walked around the medium size room, taking in what he could. He knocked on the wall to his right and heard the telltale signs of another room on the other side. He was about to push on the wall when a dripping sound behind him caused him to spin around. But there was nothing. No, wait, there. He saw one of the drops fall onto a small table in the corner. He dipped his finger in the liquid and held it up to examine it. But he nearly had a panic attack when he identified the substance. Blood.

* * *

John entered the building rather hesitantly. He knew Sherlock was here. He could feel it. But Moriarty was also likely here as well. He stepped up a staircase, slowly climbing his way higher. When he heard the door click and lock behind him, it sent chills up his spine.

"Oh, Sherlock… where in the hell are you?" John muttered. Every second he was in this place was another opportunity for something to go wrong. He continued to climb the stairs, pausing every few seconds to glance behind him. He remained safe until he reached the landing.

Movement in his peripheral vision alerted John to a threat coming around the corner. He spun around, ready to fight and narrowed his eyes for battle. But there was nothing there. He felt wind behind him and spun around again. But yet again, there was nothing. Suddenly, a sound filled the building… screams and shouts. John winced and covered his ears against the treacherous noise. It was awful. Gunshots sounded behind him, each one getting louder and louder.

"Stop… stop… JUST STOP!" he yelled out. And much to his surprise, the noises ceased. And suddenly, there was a heavy silence in the room. John breathed out a few sighs of relief and quickly took off down a hallway.

"What game are you playing, Moriarty? What do you want now?" John continued down the hallway, trying to decide what to do now. There were several doors that he could enter or another staircase at the end. He glanced at each option, trying to deduce which door to take. The stairs seemed to just lead down to more confusion, so he ruled those out.

"I could really use you right now, Sherlock," John said, actually laughing out loud. "I could really use your big egotistical brain right about now." He weighed his options carefully. Moriarty was in charge here. That was for certain. He came to the end of the hallway and slowly pushed the door open. It was heavy oak, and he had to use some muscle to push it. The lights were off in the room and John groped around for a light switch. It was weirdly placed, in the center of the wall. He flicked the lights on and screwed up his eyes against the sudden harsh influx of light. The room looked like something from the 18th century. Plain simply wooden walls surrounded him from all sides.

"What the hell," he said, unsettled by the sudden change in scenery. Even the floor was flimsy and he could feel it's weakness as he walked. That was scary too. The door began swinging on its hinges and John swung around to investigate. The heavy wood groaned as it was pulled back and forth.

"No… no stop. It's just Moriarty." He forced himself to ignore the noises. He shook his head and glanced upwards, anything to force the distractions away. When he looked up at the ceiling, he noticed a small flaw in the roof. There, up near the right corner. One of the beams was weakened by water and if it fell, then John would be given instant access to outside. He briefly debated whether or not to pursue it. It was dumb right? To shoot a beam and hope it fell. Yeah, yeah it was dumb. But he was growing desperate. Sherlock was being manipulated by Moriarty every second John wasn't there to help him.

"Come on. Do it for Sherlock," he told himself. HIs fingers hovered over his gun. He pulled it out and felt the smooth metals against his hands. Alright, he was doing this. He readied himself and aimed for the beam, right where the crack started. His finger lay easily on the trigger as he took his final aim. He pulled towards his body with his finger and heard the gunshot as well.

A bright light flashed as the wooden beam exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces. John rushed to cover his head and ducked down even lower. He felt the ground shake underneath his feet at the same time. The entire room was shaking. The walls crashed and fell. The wooden beams all crashed down, threatening to crush John with their weight.

"AH!" he shouted, bracing himself even more. But then he saw a large chunk of wood flying towards him. It hit him in the side of the head and caused blood to almost spray out. John was barely standing after that. He fought to remain conscious as the wood chips and walls kept on flying.

He was tucked away now, and his blood was running in a steady trickle down his head. He made it to the center of the room before another piece of wood hit him directly in the back of his head and everything went dark.

* * *

 **I'm back. Welcome to summer and more updates.**

 **Next time… John and Sherlock have more to worry about than just their reunion.**

 **Thanks for everything! R &R**

 **NightLightning21**


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